


Bad Choices

by whereismygarden



Series: play on, give me excess [9]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Golden Lace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 12:18:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whereismygarden/pseuds/whereismygarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lacey and Gold's non-relationship is probably a bad thing, and pursuing it further a bad choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Choices

Gold drove home from the Frenches’ sticky and drowsy, but not really minding it. He showered and sat down with ice on his knee, a glass of water, and _Blood Meridian_ , but after a few pages, decided he wasn’t in the mood for complicated prose. He was in the mood to simply go to bed, but that would be a mistake: it wasn’t even nine o’clock, and however satisfied his body might feel, getting off schedule would be a bad choice.

                Then again, it had been a day of bad choices: he’d given Marco a loan for his business, despite knowing the carpenter couldn’t really afford the interest, and had little of value to collect later down the line. He’d spent money on a sub-par lunch at Granny’s, and to round it off, had given Lacey a ride home and fucked her over the table. Not following schedule would be a minor offense.

                The important thing was to not tell his body that this kind of release could ever be regular. His last memories of being inside a woman were fuzzy and distant: Lacey had felt so _good_ , mewling and squirming beneath him, hot and real. She had cried out when he had felt her come, and her inner muscles tightening around him had nearly made him fall. Her cunt felt better than her mouth and infinitely better than his hand. It had been all he could do to whimper against her neck while his brain reformed. But, the important thing was to not think about it.

                Because it was illegal, for all that Lacey was _not_ a child, and welcomed his touch. She was guarded despite all her hunger, and sharp-tongued like him: their friendship would have been much more acceptable if she was closer to his age, and they were well-suited. But they weren’t really friends, just two outcasts who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves. And besides, Lacey had more than enough men willing to take her edge off: it rubbed him the wrong way, that he wanted nothing more than to stay buried inside her for hours, and she might hardly want him at all.

                He scowled, irritated at his pride, and slammed his glass onto the end table, nearly upsetting a little porcelain vase. He pushed it gently back: it was a Belleek vase, irreplaceable, and that decided him: if he was almost breaking things, he should go to bed. He poured himself a shot of whiskey in the kitchen, tossing the half-melted ice down the sink, and headed to bed, wishing for regret that wouldn’t come.

                She stepped into his shop as calmly as ever the day after they fucked on her table, like nothing was different, her neck sporting four long scratches and her mouth, a dry red scab. She had dusted some powder over her neck and, as usual, was wearing her bloodred lipstick, but the marks were obvious. He half-smiled, half-smirked at her, then the bell jangled again.

                “Lacey!” It was the tall, dark boy who followed her around like a large, entitled puppy. “What are you doing in _here_?” Gold bristled at the boy’s tone and bared his teeth in his most ferocious smile.

                “This is a pawnshop, not a public forum. Please don’t yell. And take care where you swing your arms.” The boy shot him a quizzical look, confused, but Lacey smirked into her hand before turning her attention to the young lout.

                “What, Greg?” He glanced over at Gold, who gave him another shark’s smile before returning his attention to the book binding he was re-sewing. Well, some of his attention.

                “Can we talk outside?” Lacey picked up a mother-of-pearl die and turned it over in her hand.

                “I like it in here.” Her tone was disinterested. The boy—Greg—shifted his feet irritably.

                “Outside is more private,” he hinted. Gold smirked into his work, rethreading a needle and winking at Lacey as she tossed her curls back.

                “Just spit it out.”

                “Winterfest,” he said, ungraciously. The die clattered back onto the shelf, and Gold switched his lamp on, jaw twitching in sudden irritation. “D’you want to go with me?”

                “Greg, that’s really nice,” Lacey’s voice was soft, and Gold glanced up to see her take his hand for a second. “But I’m not a date person. I’m going with Ruby.”

                “Ruby’s got a date.” Greg said curtly. She shrugged.

                “Sorry, but no.”

                “Can’t you just do something normal for once in your life?” he snapped, jerking at her arm. Gold rapped his cane sharply on the edge of his desk, making both of them jump and look his way.

                “As thrilling as the dance will no doubt be, kindly either shut up or remove yourselves from my shop.” He narrowed his eyes at Greg. “And I don’t appreciate people manhandling my customers, boy.” He removed his hand from Lacey’s arm pointedly, then looked back at her.

                “I’m trying to be decent to you, Lacey,” he said. She looked steadily back at him, fiddling with the die, until he shook his head, huffed exasperatedly, and left, shutting the door with more force than required.

                “As much as I enjoy your presence, I’d prefer if you didn’t bring along your friends and admirers,” he informed her coldly, and she raised her eyebrows at his tone.

                “He followed me,” she pointed out, and put the die back on the shelf, picking up an ornamental comb instead.

                “Even so,” he replied, but dropped it. “How’s your neck? Not putting off the boys, I see.” She experimentally pulled a few strands of hair through the comb, and he winced.

                “It’s fine. And he’s always after me, wants to go on dates and everything.”

                “And why don’t you go? It’s not that kind of comb, dearie. You break it, you buy it.” Lacey finally turned her whole attention on him, and he let himself appreciate her tight shirt and jeans. Her neckline was shallow but wide, leaving her shoulders pale and bare, interrupted only by the pink lines of her bra.

                “Are you jealous, Mr. Gold?” she teased, putting the comb down with a clatter and walking forward, tilting her head to the side.

                “Jealous?” he managed to make it sound like he was scoffing. He wasn’t jealous. He just wanted her to need him like some women needed romance. Like some people needed drugs. Or air. The way his brain was insisting he needed her. She could screw the entire town, as long as it was him she needed. “I’m not the dating type either, dearie.” She laughed, smiling at him in camaraderie instead of seduction.

                “Good,” she snorted. “Romance is for fools. Only leads to trouble.” He got to his feet, ignoring the ache that flared up in his knee—last night had not done it any favors—and walked around the counter, until he was standing nose to nose with her.

                “This is going to lead to trouble, too,” he whispered. “I’m breaking the law.” She rolled her eyes, and picked up the comb again, fiddling with it.

                “ _We’re_ breaking the law,” she corrected. “And we don’t have to get caught, hmm? If we’re doomed, we’ve been doomed: you know how the song goes, ‘we’re going down, down, in an earlier round, and sugar, we’re going down swinging.’” Gold took the comb from her fingers.

                “Awfully fatalistic, don’t you think?” He never knew her songs. She shrugged, and he turned her around gently, pulling up her hair and twisting it, then sliding the comb in. The white mother-of-pearl contrasted prettily with her brown hair. “Like that,” he said, and indicated a mirror. “Though I’d suggest some pins as well, your hair is thick.” She turned her head in the mirror, mouth rueful.

                “I don’t know if it’s really my style. A little pretentious, maybe?” He limped back to his desk and picked up the needle and thread once more.

                “Why don’t you take it, try it out for a few days, then decide if you want it?” She gave him a genuinely shocked look.

                “You didn’t let me borrow the other jewelry,” she accused him, folding her arms. He carefully pulled the thread through yellowing paper before answering her.

                “The other stuff was actually worth money, dearie,” he said dryly. “But I think it does suit you.” She narrowed her eyes at him, looking for his angle, no doubt, though for once, there wasn’t one. Apparently his attempt at friendship wasn’t too suspicious, however, because she just huffed and swished out of the shop, giving him a nice view of her backside in the process.

                He drew the needle through the binding, wondering if that had been another bad choice. But it was done, and Lacey’s quote struck him as suddenly quite appropriate to their situation.

**Author's Note:**

> This installment's lyrics come from the (very recognizable) Fall Out Boy song, "Sugar, We're Goin Down."


End file.
